Nicknames
by Europe28
Summary: They've known each other throughout history, the only thing that changes are the nicknames Francis keeps changing. Warning: Includes slight rape scene. FrUk
1. Mon petit Lapan

He blinked again just to be sure he was correct in what he was seeing, but he was right; a small boy seemed to be looking at him across the sea. He was too far away for Francis to get a clear image, but he could feel from within him that this was another nation like him.

But he'd always thought that mess across the sea wasn't really a country, after all it was just a place split into regions that loads of different rulers looked over.

Francis dug the oar he was holding deeper into the choppy waves, finding himself drawn in the direction of the barren lands, where the small boy stood almost as if he too was waiting.

He stepped on shore; even though he was still in his pre-teens this boy was smaller than him, he had blond hair like his own, but green eyes that pierced into Francis' blue ones, and his eyebrows were huge, yet somehow they seemed to suit his suspicious looking face.

"Who are you?" The boy asked, staring in the direction of the sea where Francis had just appeared,

"I'm France" Francis introduced himself holding out his hand, the young nation just looked at it in a distrustful way. After a moments silence Francis sighed and withdrew his hand, "Who are you then? I didn't know this place even was a country?"

"I'm England" the boy nodded matter-of-factly, crossing his arms across his small chest giving a small nod of his proud nod of his head,

"King Egbert is beginning to unite all of this place, so I was born. Where's your house?" He changed the subject rather abruptly, squinting over the horizon, "is it in the sea?"

Francis couldn't help but laugh, earning himself a scowl from the other. "No, my house is across the sea, at some points it's actually closer than you might think."

England surveyed him in silent assessment, "Why do you look like a girl?"

Francis almost fell over backwards, narrowing his eyes at the Englishmen he replied, "I don't look like a girl, this is fashion, besides take a look at yourself, your tiny and have those huge eye brows to worry about, why are you bothering me about my looks!"

The tiny country's face heated up with anger, "Get out of my country you bastard!" The boy growled, sounding exceptionally fierce for a nation that could not of been born a few weeks ago, if that.

"Gladly" the pre-teen snapped, spinning on his heel to go back to his boat, "it's cold and wet here anyway!"

England threw a stone after the retreating boat his body seething in anger, who the hell did this guy think he was, he came strolling across the sea uninvited and then continues to insult him, okay maybe he started it but it was his house he should be aloud to do what he liked.

Without a care in the world he turned away from the sea and began walking back to the small houses nearby.

* * *

"This is way too easy" Denmark held England up by the back scruff of his shirt smiling cheerfully to himself, England struggled against his grip cursing loudly;

"Let go of me you bastard!" He tried to swivel round to bite the hand that was holding him aloft; Denmark laughed patting his head with the other hand, "you're kind of cute,"

"why don't you just invade and get it over with?" England muttered going limp, he wondered what that frog leg eating moron was doing right now. Was he watching them from across the sea, laughing at him and muttering with all his friends on the mainland.

"That's no fun" Denmark protested, dropping England to the floor, "it's loads more fun to ransack the place," he gave a small wave over his shoulder as he returned to his strange bearded men.

* * *

Speaking honestly with himself Francis was worried, he glanced again out of his window at the wide ocean, he knew that France was going to invade England for political reasons but he couldn't help but feel relief too. Maybe he could help the younger nation out, it had been years since they'd last seen each other; France was pretty sure he'd almost reached his teenage years now, he wondered how much bigger England had managed to get.

"Sir we'll be setting off soon, the duke of Normandy would like to see you first," a soldier bowed low before him dressed in a warm tunic that would soon be under the heavy metal armour. Francis nodded slowly, following the man back to the tent where the duke was putting the last parts of his plan into action.

"You wanted to see me?" He parted the material of the tent and looked in at the man that had once been referred to as the bastard duke, somehow Francis felt sure he wouldn't be called that again. He knew that King Harold was marching down to meet them on the battle field, would he take the little England with him, like the duke was taking him.

"What do you think we're invading for?" The duke didn't look up from his map as Francis entered; it was moments like these that Francis remembered how much smaller he was that these heavily armoured men, despite his appearance he was older than them, but at spirit he was still a thirteen year old boy amongst men.

"Because King Harold unjustly withheld the throne of England from you after you'd been promised it by Harold himself and the previous king" Francis almost spoke word for word what he'd been briefed on a few days before.

"Yes" the duke nodded, "but England will not become France, I have no intention of killing the young nation you sometimes mention, but I will take control as his king and he must obey me; I take you with me to persuade him this way," the duke gave him a strong look, Francis held it unwavering,

"I understand," he bowed and left the duke alone in the tent.

The journey across the channel was rough and stormy, many spent a lot of time leaning over the edge of the boat; the horses below deck were whinnying in confusion as the boat lurched forward again before a particularly large wave.

Francis stumbled back, freezing salt water hitting him hard, the soldiers had begun to change, pulling on their chain mail over the brown tunics. Francis found himself roboticly pulling his own armour over his head, the metal caught in his hair pulling a few strands away; he gave a small hiss of pain at this but nothing more.

He could see the English shoreline on the horizon, it wouldn't be long now.

The men were beginning to throw anchors over the sides of the many Norman boats, bringing them to a slow wavering stop. Francis began to climb with the others onto the small rowing boats, the servants would bring there horses across on a slightly larger rowing boat.

Out of the corner of his eye Francis saw the duke fall to the ground on the shore gripping to the sand like a life support. There was a gasp as the men exchanged worried glances, was this a bad omen?

"There, see I have grasped England!" He called back to them, he was replied to with a relieved excited cheer, they would win this. "We march to Hastings" the duke ordered, "we should meet the so called king around there."

The long march was exhausting and Francis found it hard to keep up with the taller men, but they were almost there, he could tell by the wave of adrenalin that moved through every one of them like lightning over and over again like a current, making his heart jump with every step.

Then they were in sight, standing on a hill, they had the higher ground, this wasn't good. Francis squinted up at them, he thought he could make out a small boy at the front next to the false king, or was it just his imagination.

For a moment there was silence, an eerie silence, then all hell broke loose, the French charged.

Francis darted forward weaving amongst the men, the blades that happened to catch him didn't hurt too much it would take more than that to hurt a country. He couldn't look over the heads of the men so he tried to peer through their legs instead. Finally he spotted England rushing around still no bigger than when Francis had last seen him, his eyes were wide and fearful, though Francis could tell he didn't want the English soldiers to know that.

They were two frightened children running around the ankles of fighting men.

"England!" Francis called out, trying to force his way over too him, England spotted him and panicked, without a moments hesitation he had turned and run back through the legs of the soldiers yelling "Help! Help! He's going to kill me!"

A few of the English soldiers pulled away from the enemy to tackle Francis, he managed to dash around them and run after the terrorfied boy.

"Wait!" He yelled, "I'm not going to hurt you!" Even Francis could see that this argument might not be very convincing at the moment.

When they broke free of the fighting men Francis found he could use his long legs to advantage again, he managed to seize hold of the back of England's tunic. The little nation wailed, struggling to be free. Francis quickly pulled the small sword from the younger country's belt- people could not kill nations but other nations could.

"I'm not going to hurt you" Francis begged for him to understand, "I just need to be with you in case we win"

"So you can drag me to them!" England spat, struggling more, managing to successfully spin round and kick Francis' shins. Francis still kept a firm grip on him,

"No" he sighed, "because you have never had someone try to fully take your country in your life time, it might hurt, but just for a bit; we won't make you France we're just going to invade"

England stopped glaring at him for a moment a brief look of confusion passing over his face, "we won't lose," he sounded so sure of himself that Francis felt a pang in his heart.

"Look!" England suddenly pointed back at the battleground, the French were running back down the hill, the English charging down the hill in victory; but Francis knew what was going to happen, without a word he closed his arms around the boy hugging him close to his chest.

"G-get off me Frog!" England stammered, trying to pull away but Francis held him firmly; then the pain washed over him, suddenly the English were dyeing in huge amounts. It had been a false retreat, now the Normans had turned on them swords glinting, the English unable to stop.

The small nation shook violently, trying to grip at Francis' cold armour, screaming in agony.

"It will be over soon" Francis breathed, unsure what else he could say.

All of a sudden England lurched forward into him tearing at his own face the pain was so great, Francis pulled him away quickly, seizing his tiny hands and pulling them away from his face, England had been tearing at his eye so that the surrounded area was covered in tiny cuts his nails had inflicted.

"Angleterre..." Francis could see that after the sudden extremity, the pain was beginning to subside, the Norman's had won. Not really knowing what he was doing Francis bent down to place a small kiss above England's eye, "I need to go back to France now, like I said this is not claiming you as French territory so I'm going back, but if you ever need anything you can always come and see me." With that Francis got back to his feet, turning back to the battleground.

* * *

England blinked round at the village, inside the pit of his stomach he could feel a dull numbness, the people of his country were crying, if not openly, they were inside.

Matilda and Stephen's armies clashed all over the country, leaving villages like this in ruin, and he didn't know what to do. Despite the fact many years had passed since he was born he still didn't feel like he'd grown very much bigger; maybe by a year or two but nothing noticeable.

"So who do you support?" England spun round, an angry man was stood behind him, pitchfork in hand, he only gripped it tighter when he realised who the child was,

"S-Support?" England stammered, eyeing the pitchfork nervously, "I-I don't know, it's not my job to take sides in my own country" he tried to explain,

"Why not!" The man spat, "if you'd just pick a side it would surly win, then this civil war would be over"

"It doesn't work like that" the blond boy tried to explain to the adult man, obviously a villager from the resent attack.

"What do you mean it doesn't work like that, we're your people you shouldn't let us suffer!"

"I'm sorry" England shook his head, "there's nothing I can do but wait out the result like the rest of..." He leapt back as the pitchfork swung at him; stumbling backwards he ran, the people in his own home had turned on him.

He knew where he was running though he didn't know why. He sprinted all the way to the shore line at the edge of the country, collapsing into the small boat he kept there; hastily he began rowing across the channel feeling his muscles throb as he did.

He landed his boat against the foreign shore, tripping over rocks and dips in his hurry to reach the Frenchmen, it somehow seemed like Francis had known he was coming, because there he was waiting patiently.

"What is it mon petit Lapin?" Francis bent down, England felt a small wave of irritation, France looked a little older, maybe fifteen, and he still hadn't grown!

"What's with the icky nick name frog?" He grumbled clinging to the front of Francis' long clothes, they were funny a little bit like a woman's dress, but it seemed the done thing here.

"You just remind me a bit of a little lapin that's all" Francis beamed, enjoying the look of irritation on England's face, "besides you don't have a real name yet anyway, so I just thought I'd give you one"

"I-I do so!" England protested, "I'm England"

Francis shook his head laughing, the boy bit his lip in annoyance he didn't like it that France was mocking him like this, "d-dam you frog" he muttered,

"My name is Francis as well as France, you need another name," he bent down so he was eye to eye with England,

"Well in that case my name is Englcis" England stuck his nose in the air, "there now I have another name"

Francis shook his head again, ruffling England's hair, "that's not a name, you'll know when you have a name, maybe you'll grow up a bit then too," he walked away laughing, then stopped looking back with a kind look on his face again, "Oh, and too your problem, I'm sure it will soften out itself."

* * *

"Surly you understand where I stand?" Francis who had aged again to a young man of eighteen looked down at the tiny boy that from his perspective seemed to get smaller all the time, but how had he managed to take some of Francis' own home.

"Will King Philip still not back down?" England asked, avoiding the older man's gaze, he hated to see how much the other had grown. He'd tried many names since their last visit but none seemed to suit him.

"Of course he won't Angleterre it's out country, you can tell your king that!" He was hoping to intimidate the invading country with his size but it wasn't working,

"That land came with your Norman people, therefore they are mine" England argued,

"But that was so long ago petit lapin" Francis tried to reason with him, "surly we can be allowed them back now"

"No" England replied matter-of-factly, turning his head away, "I will return your answer."

The sounds of swords clashing time and time again against the same country; dam that King John England could almost hiss out loud, how could they of gone from such power to this. Slowly but surly France was taking back the land the English had held on the continent.

He hated it, the fact they were losing, that look that Francis gave him every time they locked eyes on the battleground; it was so smug he just wanted to hit that bastard.

They'd almost been driven back over the sea completely. He was exhausted couldn't they rest just a little, did the French never tire?

Eventually both sides did stop to rest, but England knew the battle was lost, the sea was pretty much in sight they'd been driven so far back.

The men collapsed onto the grass, pulling off the heavy armour to tend to their wounds or just sleep comfortably.

England moved as if in a daze to the king's tent to ask permission to sleep, he was almost there when a cry of alarm came up from the front of the camp, without wasting any time England ran back to the entrance of the camp, it would be just like those sneaky French bastard to fake a rest.

But when he reached the gate, the only one there was Francis with his hands up stood just outside the camp, he gave a small wave at the sight of England.

"Look I just want to speak to him" Francis argued with the hesitant guard,

"I don't think that would be appropriate" the guard was beginning to grumble, however he was cut off by England who stepped forward to come face to face with Francis' knee,

"I'll speak to him" England nodded, Francis grinned triumphantly bending down so they could look at each other.

"Will King John still not back down" he said with a small smirk on creeping up the side of his face,

"Of course he won't I..." He scowled as he realised Francis was just teasing him with the last conversation they'd had, "is that all you came here to say?"

"Not at all" Francis beamed, "I wanted to know how the hunt for a name was coming?"

"N-none of your business!" England spun round, crossing his arms,

"Ah, your so cute mon petit lapin" Francis beamed, sneaking his arms round his waist from behind pulling him back into his chest for a hug, England kicked out against him, trying to ignore the confused look the guard was giving them.

"Get off me you frog eating, snail sucking, horse chomping French bastard!" England wailed, throwing every insult he could think off of the top of his head.

"Ah Spain get little Romano, Prussia gets a younger brother, so I don't want to be left out" France nuzzled affectionately at him,

"Yeah but those failures of friends you have actually own Romano and Germany – or what ever he was called, you don't own me and you never will!" England finally managed to pull out of his grasp, "when we cross the channel don't come after us."

He stormed back into the camp hoping to catch up on the little sleep he could, leaving the teenage France to gawk after him; he was only a little boy but he was so independent for one so young, most young nations were taken care of by others until they were big enough, like Spain was doing for Romano and Austria was doing for little Italy.

"Please grow up quick" Francis whispered with a small smile.

* * *

They were back on the battlefield again, England felt the confidant grin on his face as he mounted his horse. He kicked it forward anticipation nipping at him all the way. They came face to face with the French army, then the two armies locked in battle.

England reared his horse, charging through the two armies, as nations they could not take part in the actual fighting against humans, it was unfair because after all they could hardly scratch them back in self defence.

He saw him on his own horse somewhere ahead, he was looking at the ground trying to find him, well he'd give him a shock all right. He charged, pulling the sword from its scabbard with a flourish, when they were level he leapt from the horse's back down on him.

"The name's Arthur you bastard!"


	2. Mon cher

Francis hardly had time to take in what he was seeing before he was knocked heavily to the floor, only just managing to defend the blow delivered by the other. For a moment Francis didn't recognise him, but then who else could have such ridicules eyebrows.

He was taller, still smaller than Francis himself, but maybe coming up to a fifteen sixteen age, his sharp green eyes had only hardened with age, his blond hair even messier on top of his head, but that wasn't the most surprising – He'd grown so thin, all the baby fat having left him with nothing but a few thin layers of skin, but not in the disgustingly underweight way either. His high cheekbones were so visible Francis was almost tempted to run one finger along them.

They stayed like that for what could have been hours while the battle raged around them; Arthur straddling his waist with his sword pointing down, and Francis beneath him holding up his sword to defend himself.

Francis swallowed, how could that bratty little kid of turned into this? He felt his stomach give a lurch as his lower body began to react to their closeness, giving Francis a brief moment of relief to know that the armour hid his arousal.

What was he doing! Arthur may be older now but he was still younger than himself, it somehow felt wrong to have such impure thoughts about the Englishmen who still looked fairly proud of himself.

Thus began the hundred (-cough- _and nine_) year war.

England grunted suddenly, his sword hand shaking violently, his face paling, he'd held it back as long as he could manage but this was his limit. Despite France and his whole army being there he let lose a loud scream of agony, blood dripping from his lips.

"Angleterre!" Francis stood above him hesitantly, was this just a trick, should he injure him now put the country out of this long tiring war, it's what he should do. He raised the sword above his head ready to strike but then Arthur rolled onto his back trembling, his eyes wide and fearful.

Why was he in so much pain, they were both fighting this war, sure it was painful but not to this extent.

Despite everything he dropped his sword to the floor to bend next to the weeping nation.

"What's hurting?" Francis asked soothingly, he scooped Arthur up in his arms holding his pale face to his,

"It's that dam thing going round at home!" Arthur closed his eyes trying to contain the pain within him,

"But we can't get ill like that?" Francis asked in a puzzled tone,

"Not me!" Arthur hissed, lurching backwards so suddenly Francis only just had time to grab him before he hit the floor, "all those people are dying," he let out a sharp his, biting his own tongue to distract himself from the pain.

Carefully Francis got to his feet with Arthur in his arms, he needed to get him away from the battleground, he was so weak that he'd even forgotten to insult the Frenchmen, this was worrying indeed.

He managed to find a clear field, free of the battle. He lay the twitching England on the ground, he lay next to him holding him close not caring how much blood he got all over himself. Slowly but steadily Arthur stopped shaking, but Francis knew it wasn't over, the younger nation had just managed to get control over the screaming agony.

They lay together for what could have been days, what were days to those that lived forever – France with his arms wrapped protectively around his born enemy.

* * *

They had lost, Arthur gripped at his shoulder, something he'd begun to notice over his life was that during wars and large battles marks would appear over his body like scars.

After over a hundred years of war they'd lost with nothing to show of it except a home filled with graves that were overflowing so many people had died in the last hundred years.

"Mon cher," that was all he needed at the moment, Arthur spun round to glare at the Frenchman, who gave him a large if not a little tipsy grin, a bottle of expensive looking wine in one hand, "I'm going out to celebrate with Prussia and Spain, want to come?"

Arthur could not believe him!

"Why the hell would I want to _Celebrate_!" Arthur yelled, his thumbs twitching to strangle the bastard,

"It doesn't matter mon petit lapin" he dismissed, "lets just go out for a drink, you need one as much as I do..." He trailed off, allowing a small snigger to escape him, "or is it true that you've never had a drink before?"

Arthur flushed this time he did jolt forward to punch him but Francis skipped delicately aside, laughing as the poor Englishmen tripped over his own feet and fell to the floor.

"Fine, I'll come but only to make a point that I can handle my drink!" Arthur snapped, ignoring Francis' hand and getting up by himself, "after that you can piss off for good, I never want to see you or anyone from your dammed country again!"

Francis felt a little pang of hurt but ignored it, he walked ahead while the mid-teen stalked behind him glaring at his back.

"So this is your little charge?" Prussia slipped out of nowhere and rested his arm on Francis' shoulder, "how long was that war of yours?"

"A hundred and nine years" Arthur grumbled still glaring at Francis, Prussia grinned,

"you need to take care of these little countries a bit better or they just end up fighting stupid wars" he shook his head, Arthur abruptly shifted his gaze from Francis to Prussia,

"I'm not _his _responsibility, I'm a nation in my own right," Francis didn't miss the hiss in his words, but Prussia just laughed again and began moving quickly ahead to the bar.

"Spain said he'd meet us there, you know how he hates leaving Romano alone, so he said he'll leave early," Prussia rolled his eyes and muttered something, sniggering to himself.

Arthur shifted as far away from the two older nations as he could, sitting at the opposite side of the counter; but Francis wasn't going to let him get away that easily...

"Mon cher" Francis beamed leaning over his shoulder, "allow me to buy you your first drink"

Arthur grunted, it wasn't that he wanted Francis to buy him a drink, but he was pretty strapped for cash at the moment, and he hardly thought his boss would approve of him spending precious money in a continental pub.

Francis ordered a drink for himself, Gilbert, Antonio (for when he arrived) and England. "Drink up" Francis beamed, watching him carefully.

Arthur took a long swig swallowing it down as fast as he could, rather like Gilbert's style of drinking, he didn't savour the taste.

He slammed the empty glass down, his eyes already swimming a little in his head, but he looked at Francis expectantly.

Francis blinked then realised what Arthur wanted him to do, he ordered another drink... And another, and another, and another; while Arthur got more and more drunk, and he wasn't a pretty drunk either.

Francis could see the younger man's eyes flick in and out of focus as he studied him across the room.

"Do you want something?" France smirked, a little tipsy himself, but still able to tell what was going on, he was just relaxed, he didn't understand why all the other countries seemed to get pissed, but he had never seen anything as bad as what Arthur was displaying now.

"YOU!" Arthur's voice slurred, his voice was loud and wavering, and by the way his finger was drifting around pointing at him Francis could tell his perspective was out too. "DO YOU KNOW WHAT A DICK HEADED MORON YOU ARE?"

"No" Francis grinned innocently, but inside he was thinking, 'I should probably get him back before he ends up hurting himself.' Antonio had gone home already and Gilbert had disappeared a little while ago and probably wouldn't be back.

"I WILL BEAT YOU EVENTUALLY! JUST YOU WAIT, I'LL COMPLETELY HUMILIATE YOU!" If possible he seemed to be getting louder,

"Of course you will" Francis teased, slowly slipping his arm into a support round Arthur's waist,

"WHAT'RE YOU DOING!" Arthur squirmed, trying to claw back to the drinking counter,

"You are way to drunk" Francis continued to drag him away to the door.

Once they were outside Francis managed to get a boy to send for a carriage to take them to the coast. While they were waiting Arthur was sick several times into the bushes behind the pub.

Francis bundled him onto the coach, passing the boy a silver coin in thanks. The only problem was the carriage was quite small. Despite them being sat opposite each other Francis could feel Arthur's knees against his.

His body was reacting again, dirty thought running through his mind of exactly what he could do to the drunk teen in the small carriage. It was because of this it took him so long to register what was actually happening; one moment Arthur had been cursing him loudly, the next his lips were pressed against Francis'.

Francis felt himself succumb to the younger boy, eagerly kissing back; the alcohol inside him seeming to take final effect. He ran his hands through Arthur's hair, beating his tongue down for dominance.

_What are you doing! _A small frantic voice ran through Francis' head, pulling him back to his senses. Francis pushed the younger boy away, though it pained him to do so. Arthur gave a sniff and collapsed into a drunkard sleep against Francis' chest; his face peaceful as he clung to the front of the Frenchman's shirt like a pillow.

"You're actually kind of cute like this" Francis whispered, kissing him lightly on the top of his head, "just wait till you're a little bit older, then I'll take you drinking again." He couldn't help but smile at this; when Arthur was older he defiantly wouldn't push him away.

* * *

"This is great" Arthur boasted loudly, had he really just come round Francis' house to boast.

Apart from the occasional execution England was beginning to do extremely well, Henry VIII was on the throne (currently on his second wife). On the brief moments when Francis had met the current English king he'd disliked him immensely, he already knew Spain and England's relationship was a bit rocky after the king's divorce.

"Well do be sure to tell your king not to eat too many of those boar I've seen you hunting or he'll start to get a bit tight in the trousers, and I don't mean in the good way," Francis pulled a mock smile, glaring across at the Englishman.

Arthur huffed, looking away from him in the most immature way imaginable.

"How's the son problem?" France couldn't hide his smirk this time, Arthur whipped round drawing his sword,

"The king does not like that to be spoken about," Arthur returned his sword to his belt deciding maybe starting another fight with the frog wasn't the best of ideas, especially because they were finally starting to do well.

"Well you should visit more often mon cher" Francis grinned, running a long finger over Arthur's jawline, Arthur blushed and flinched away,

"I do wish you wouldn't call me that" he muttered, his face flushed bright red, "it's not appropriate"

"Ah, your so frigid L'Angleterre," just to piss him off Francis kissed down on the top of his head, feeling the soft blond hair against his face,

"D-dammed Frog!" Arthur shot backward turning to run back to the channel, Francis smiled after him not missing the hurried words Arthur called back over his shoulder; "see you around I guess."

* * *

It was dark outside, it must be at least two in the morning, so why was someone knocking franticly at his door at this hour?

Pulling a dressing gown on Francis clambered out of bed and down the stairs to tell who ever it was to either sleep with him or piss off.

He threw open the door mouth open and ready to put his two suggestions forward then stopped dead, Arthur (now eighteen) was stood under his doorway, a pinkish tint on his cheeks, refusing to look Francis in the eye; he hugged his arms close to his chest displaying his discomfort at the situation.

"A-Arthur?" Francis didn't know quite else what to say, he stood aside to let England into the house,

"I'm not here because I want to be" Arthur mumbled, stepping into the house thankfully, following Francis into his living room, ploncking himself down on the sofa.

"The queen just died, me and my little brother are now going to be ruled by one king," he bit his bottom lip in frustration, drawing a small drop of blood.

Francis sat down next to him, pleased they were now pretty much identical in height, though he knew he had aged into his early twenties now, he'd stop ageing soon, then Arthur could catch up. He ran one finger along Arthur's lower lip, prising the teeth away from his lip.

"Get off me you dammed frog" Arthur murmured, blushing again, did France now what effect he was suddenly having on him!

"Mon cher, you haven't changed a bit," Francis' arm slipped round his waist, feeling his stomach give a violent lurch Arthur jumped away from him,

"I'll just crash on your sofa for the night, I'll be gone tomorrow," his fists clenched and unclenched nails digging into his flesh.

"Okay" Francis shrugged, standing so they were level with each other, "just let me do one thing," he etched closer,

"What?" Arthur snapped as if he couldn't be less interested,

"This." Francis moved forward so suddenly Arthur brought his hands up in defence, suddenly finding them pressing into Francis' chest, their lips meeting in a chaste kiss. Francis pulled away way too soon, giving Arthur a teasing look. "Just to commemorate the fact we're now the same height," he explained with a cheeky smile over his shoulder as he climbed the stairs back to bed, leaving Arthur speechless downstairs.


	3. Mon Amour

So many hundreds of years had gone by since they'd last been face to face like this, but Arthur knew this time France had to be stopped, not just for England but for Europe too. He didn't blame Francis it was that boss of his that was leading this, but he was destined only to face Francis in battle, it would be breaking the great unspoken law the nations held; not to lay a hand in anger on any human.

"Going to lose again?" Francis growled, now he thought about it Arthur had never seen Francis angry before, but the rage and hate in his eyes now matched Arthur's.

"Fuck off!" Arthur snapped, bringing his sword down, but Francis blocked it with apparent ease, giving them a split second to lock eyes again; something new had joined the anger there, something deep and wanting. Both were in their early twenties now, how long had they waited.

Francis pulled back, pulling his gun from his back firing, Arthur felt the bullet graze his shoulder but other whys he was unharmed. Throwing down his sword he grabbed his own gun, the two face to face again.

The battle was growing to an end, Arthur knew he was winning, the master plan Wellington had thought up had not failed, the French were surrounded. So why was he now standing in Francis' house? the two of them standing in the centre of the living room staring at each other.

"Heard your precious dictator surrendered" Arthur jeered, shooting a nasty look across at the other, Francis said nothing, sensing a moment of weakness Arthur moved closer, dancing round the other blond grinning, he'd finally beaten him.

"Not looking so good now are we, getting too above our selves were we?"

Francis grunted, looking like he wanted nothing less than to hit Arthur right there and then.

"Maybe I'll ask the king to have him executed, eh?"

Francis gripped the front of his shirt suddenly, digging his nails through the material so that they pinched at the soft skin underneath. Arthur looked surprised and then he glared again, trying to pull away.

"Let me go you frog legged bastard!" In retaliation he bit down hard on one of Francis' hands, the Frenchman whipped back his hand, then he smiled, licking the blood from his thumb.

They didn't know who had started it but suddenly their lips were together, snapping at the other's tongue, bruising the lips of the other as much as they could.

In between kisses they'd claw and hit at each other, pulling knives from their belts to inflict more damage, until both were covered in blood.

Arthur felt Francis push down hard on him, sending him falling backwards, head hitting the oak coffee table; he let out a cry of pain, that soon became a moan as Francis straddled his waist pulling the shirt away near his neck, placing his mouth there sucking and biting, until the flesh was blue and raw.

Arthur had begun to pull off the other man's shirt, trying to shift their position, failing miserably. He still managed to lean forward and run his tongue over Francis' collarbone, Francis moaned, leaving himself open for attack; Arthur brought his nails down his chest feeling himself draw blood.

He felt himself hoisted back into a standing position, Francis spun him round smashing him head first into the wall, he met it with a sickening crunch.

"When I get my hands on you I'm gonna..." But he broke off with a loud groan, he could feel something hard against his leg, and knew he himself was getting harder every second.

His trousers and boxers were torn down in one fluent movement, Arthur already knew Francis wasn't going to bother with something like lube, the whole point of this was to hurt each other as much as possible.

Feeling Francis' fingers stab into him Arthur let out a mixture between a cry and hiss. Somehow Francis was also managing to remove his own trousers and boxers at the same time. His fingers hadn't been there long enough to completely open him, this didn't bother the Frenchman that suddenly forced himself into him.

Never had Arthur been in so much pain, (maybe that time with the plague?) he screamed, blinded by the bolts up his spine, his vision was clouded. Faintly he could feel Francis' hands on his shoulders, forcing the younger man back into him.

Francis heard himself groan, feeling the heat radiating off the Englishman, somewhere he knew that he'd hate himself for this in the morning, and Arthur would hate him too.

He thrusted harder, but this was too much, the other fainted against his chest, the pain finally having taken him.

Gently Francis pulled himself out of him, falling back to the ground himself. He collapsed into sleep, Arthur resting on his chest. He'd defiantly regret this in the morning.

Francis was awoken by the sound of the other nation sniffing loudly, his face dripping with tears, obviously he was still in pain from their night's fight.

Struggling to remember exactly what they'd done Francis racked his brain; they'd had sex he knew that much, but he'd been so angry last night; had he not used to lube or anything to make it easier.

"Arthur, mon cher?" Francis held the whimpering country to his chest, to his surprise Arthur didn't pull away, they stayed together for a moment, needing one another's company.

"shit head" Arthur insulted snuggling closer.

For the first few years after the incident Francis and Arthur continued the enraged violent sex episodes, then as suddenly as it had begun it had stopped; the tension between the two countries was evening out again.

* * *

The artillery exploded all around them, men screamed, crying for their mothers; it hurt, they both knew the other was in pain. Now they weren't facing each other on the battlefield, they were side by side, working together.

Covered in mud and other men's blood they waited, for something, anything to happen; The French soldiers had begun moving to Verdun away from the proposed battleground of the Somme; so they stood somewhere in the middle unsure which way to run.

Suddenly Francis fell to his knees trembling, clenching his fists on the muddy duck boards, his breath coming out in rigid gasps; England ignored him, this had become so common now, that they realised they couldn't comfort one another every time the other collapsed.

"You okay?" Arthur asked after a moment, it seemed Francis was finding it harder to gain control of this pain,

"Yeah, great, why?" He tried to smile, but at that moment his body chose to jerk forward, shattering his bones out of place, he gave a loud yell, causing some of the moving French soldiers to freeze where they were, even some of the British were taking notice.

"Francis!" Arthur dropped to his knees, clinging to the other man, willing him to sit, "what's happening! Where!"

France let out a splutter of blood, his own tears stained red, "V-Verdun" he managed to splutter, shaking violently against Arthur's chest, "S-so many dying"

Arthur looked down on Francis for a moment before propping him up against the wall of the trench, he got up, light blond hair covering his eyes.

"Send a message" He yelled down the line, knowing it would reach someone eventually, "We're bringing the Somme forward, we'll attack on our own, Canada is on standby just in case!"

He sprinted down the line past all the whispering men as his message ran to every man all the way down the trench, But he couldn't care less, sure he wasn't aloud to fight the other men, but he could still get into the other trench search the entire place and get Ludwig and Gilbert to pull out of Verdun.

**Verdun, the French lost 337,000 men, the Germans the same. **

**Somme, the French lost 200,000 men, the British 432,000, and the Germans 500,000**

_**Two of the bloodiest battles ever fought.**_

Fingers ran along their bodies, stroking each individual scar from the last two battles. There was blood on their hands, dripping down their wrists. It had been too long they'd told themselves, but this time there was no violence in their touch; it was soft and caring.

Arthur wiped the tears from Francis' eyes as Francis licked them from his own face, pausing occasionally to pull into another kiss.

So much damage was being done during this 'war to end all wars', they needed to cling to someone, someone who'd understand as only another nation could.

The slow steady movements caused them both to moan silently, holding each other close, rocking together.

They collapsed onto the makeshift bed side by side still wrapped in an needy embrace. They'd managed to find an area of the trenches that had been shelled recently, no one was left.

"When will this be over?" Arthur's voice shook, he buried his face in Francis' chest to try and muffle the stammer. Francis kissed him gently on the forehead,

"I don't know mon amour..."

* * *

Arthur watched him across the meeting room, Alfred was going on about his new plan to drop a large chunk of Canada on top of Germany, to which Francis was protesting loudly, banging his fist on the table, Arthur had to admit Canada had been Francis' first so it was no wonder that he was looking out for the other's well being.

Arthur had to stifle a gasp as he felt himself grow hard, this was so unfair! It was all that dammed Frog's fault.

When the last war had ended so did the sympathy sex, for the next few years they'd avoided each other, too busy repairing their own countries.

They only came in contact again when Germany's boss began rearming the country, Arthur had managed to persuade Francis to let it slip. Then the Nazis had marched into the Rhineland with an army, again Arthur told him not to act too rashly. Sudetenland was invaded, despite the fact France was an ally with the Czechs Arthur had got him to attend the 'four powers meeting' instead (France, Britain, Italy, and Germany), it was agreed Germany would have Sudetenland, then he went and took over the rest of Czechoslovakia.

It took them all the way up to 1939 when Poland got invaded to finally step in.

Francis suddenly plonked himself down in the seat next to Arthur sighing heavily, it seemed like he'd deterred Alfred for now from attempting to cut away half of Canada and carry it across the world to Germany.

Arthur saw him wince suddenly, he knew Francis was suffering, although he had escaped to help carry on the fight, the people of his country were suffering under Nazi rule; he could feel their defiance and it burned within him.

Before he knew what he was doing Arthur had placed his hand on top of Francis' under the table; he stayed looking straight ahead at Alfred, ignoring Francis' surprised looks. He immediately regretted it because Francis had just slipped his hand from his lap to Arthur's.

England gave a small squeak, Alfred ignored him, but China and Russia had given him a funny look.

"_Being bold are we, mon amour_?" Francis breathed lightly into his ear, slipping his hand further into Arthur's inner leg; suppressing a groan Arthur bit his bottom lip.

"_Don't worry we'll deal with that problem in your pants after the meeting" _

Arthur felt his face heat up, he glared at Francis indignantly; but that didn't stop him from running to the nearest bathroom with Francis the moment Alfred finished talking, Francis leading him by the hand as they ran through the corridors. For a moment Arthur felt like a young teen again, the adrenalin rush of doing something you weren't meant too.

They locked the cubical door behind them and locked lips in a tight battle for dominance. Arthur felt himself being pushed against the back wall, Francis pulling down his and Arthur's pants in a swift movement, Arthur growled into their kiss, irritated that Francis seemed to be undressing himself, Francis let the younger nation remove his shirt while Francis ran his hands over the bulk in Arthur's boxers.

"Just get on with it then" Arthur murmured, now the adrenalin was gone he was becoming embarrassed again.

"You're no fun mon amour" Francis whined, searching through the pockets in his discarded trousers for lube. Francis spun him so he was being pressed face first into the cubical wall.

Francis pulled down Arthur's boxers then his own, before inserting the first lube drenched finger into him. Arthur simpered, tensing slightly, he relaxed again as Francis' mouth began making its way over his shoulder and neck.

The second finger had joined the first, England knew France was taking his time, the other man enjoyed foreplay, and was probably quite miffed Arthur had insisted he hurried it up.

"Dammed frog!" Arthur moaned, trying to turn his head to kiss the Frenchman, Francis just licked his jaw and turned him back to the wall.

Finally the third finger was in, rummaging around to make sure there was enough space, Arthur let a muffled cry of pleasure leave him, Francis had found just the right spot...

"Francis..." England felt his back arch, frantic now, "please" he begged.

Finally Francis entered him properly, they began moving together at a steady pace, used to each others movements by now.

The door of the bathroom was suddenly opened, Arthur froze biting his tongue in the process, but Francis was still trying to move, running his hands under Arthur's shirt.

"Stop it!" Arthur hissed, waiting for whoever it was to go. Francis nipped his ear playfully, trying to get a reaction, Arthur held firm and didn't speak till the door had closed again.

"_You're so cute mon amour" _Francis grinned, England turned to face him again looking annoyed,

"What is it with you and the nicknames?" He asked, looking Francis in the eye, "It's gone from little rabbit, to my dear and now..."

"_My love?"_ Francis suggested, rolling his tongue a little, it didn't sound anywhere near as romantic in English.

"Yeah" Arthur nodded, "why?"

"What do you mean why?" Francis could see Arthur was blushing now,

"I only... I mean... You never call me Arthur, I think I'd just like to hear it once..." There was an awkward silence, Arthur looked away, fiddling nervously with the front buttons on his shirt, he felt a hand force him back to look into Francis' deep meaningful blue eyes,

"_Arthur..._" He whispered pulling the Englishman back for another sealing kiss.


End file.
